by Tim Ayliffe
‘So, here’s what needs to happen.’ Roberts sounded like he was reaching his climax. ‘And I say this directly to all Muslims in this country. It’s time to dob in a terrorist! Yes, that’s right. We can’t do it, you need to! Dob. In. A. Terrorist! If you suspect someone of having extremist views, dob them in. If you hear someone saying they like Islamic Nation, dob them in. If you know someone who you think might be sending money to people in the Middle East and that the money could be going to terrorists, dob them in! It’s time, people! Let’s stop the rot and make our country safe again!’
Click.
Bailey switched off the radio. Guys like Keith Roberts were bad for democracy. The only difference between him and the extremists was that his weapon was a microphone instead of a gun. But it was just as dangerous.
A crack of lightning made Bailey jump in his seat.
He’d fallen asleep in his car again, head up against the window. It was the middle of the day and it was dark outside, big grey clouds dominating the sky.
Raindrops started landing on the car, a patter at first, before the skies opened in a violent storm. The drops of water were quickly replaced by hail, pelting his car like machine-gun fire.
Minutes later, it was over. The clouds had parted and Sydney was covered by blue sky again, the hot sun lifting the water back off the road in a steamy haze.
Sydney’s weather was becoming crazy. Almost tropical.
Three hours, and still no call from Dexter. Bailey’s impatience got the better of him and he sent her a message. He knew that it would annoy her, but he did it anyway.
Three hours and counting
Roselands isn’t exactly a holiday destination
Any updates, detective?
He got the response he was expecting.
No
At least it was a response.
He peeled back the plastic on his egg and lettuce sandwich and prayed that it had been made within the past twenty-four hours. The hard exterior of the bread suggested that it hadn’t. He was bored and hungry, so he took the chance. It didn’t taste too bad. Although Bailey knew that the measure of a service station lunch wasn’t in the taste, it was in what happened later. Fingers crossed.
When the fourth hour ticked over, Bailey rolled back his seat for another siesta. He closed his eyes, and caught a faint hum of an engine. Getting louder. Closer.
He sat up just in time to catch the BearCat in his rear-view mirror, lights flashing, engine roaring. He turned the key in the ignition just as the nine-tonne armoured rescue truck sped past with two guys wearing flash hoods in the front seat.
Bailey swung out onto the street after them, his little Corolla making all kinds of noises that he’d never heard before.
Two turns later and the lights on the roof of the BearCat went dead.
They must have been getting close.
Three more turns and the BearCat skidded to a stop.
Bailey had followed enough cops around over the years to know what was likely to happen next.
The first aim of the Tactical Operations Unit was to stun the target. These guys were used to dealing with dangerous people. Surprise was everything.
Bailey parked a good fifty metres away, trying to avoid being seen.
Seconds later, five police cars blocked off the area around an old weatherboard house with paint peeling off the outside and a shitty old Commodore in the driveway.
The street had multiple entry points, meaning multiple exits.
Sliding down the front seat, ducking his head so that he wouldn’t get noticed, Bailey grabbed his notepad from the glove box and started writing down what he saw.
The doors to the BearCat swung open along with the hatch on the roof. The marksman up top was the first to appear. His job was to be the eyes for the team going in. For however long it took, he’d be up there, pointing his M4 carbine rifle at the house, ready to deal with any threat with lethal force.
Bailey counted five others as they poured out of the truck. He’d had enough beers with TOU cops to know all the roles. The team leader would have assigned everyone before they had even left the station. Driver, shield man, marksman, negotiator. They all looked the same. Faces hidden behind flash hoods, goggles and helmets. Each wearing dark navy overalls, ballistic vests, rifles in their right hands and Glock pistols – secondary weapons – strapped to their belts along with a canister of CS spray.
It was all happening so quickly that anyone inside the house would have no idea about the guns pointing in their direction, getting closer. The guy with the ballistic shield was leading them up the concrete driveway towards the front door. Seconds later, he stepped aside to make way for the guy with the ram.
One swing of the metal cylinder and the door was wide open.
‘Go! Go! Go!’
The TOU guys moved quickly inside.
If the targets really were terrorists then there was always the chance that they had serious weapons, like bombs. Violent nut jobs could make them using instructions from the internet, with all the ingredients available on the shelf at the hardware store up the road. There was no room for error.
A series of loud bangs echoed from inside, white lights flashing through the windows. Bullets, stun grenades, Bailey didn’t know. He just hoped that nobody had put a bullet in Tariq Haneef. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end for him. He was only fifteen years old. Young enough to make mistakes. Much too young to die for them.
‘Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon!’
The marksman on top of the BearCat was yelling at a guy in a pair of boxer shorts who’d sprinted around from the back of the house with a pistol in his hand.
‘Drop it!’
The guy raised the gun at the cop who responded by squeezing the trigger on his rifle, unloading two bullets into his chest.
Bang! Bang!
The gunman fell to his knees. Before his shoulder had even hit the grass the bloke in the hatch squeezed off another two rounds.
The noises from inside the house had stopped and, after a few minutes, the cops walked out the front door with two men, half-dressed, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Covered in tattoos, with bulging muscles and crew cuts, they looked more like drug dealers or standover men than terrorists.
The cops marched them onto the driveway, forcing them to lie face-down, metres from where the guy with the pistol lay dead on the lawn.
There wasn’t any sign of Tariq.
By now, another dozen officers, around half of them in uniform, were standing out the front, waiting for the TOU to hand over control to the most senior cop on the scene. Bailey guessed that was Sharon Dexter. She walked over to a stumpy guy in a grey suit and, after a short conversation, she turned around and headed towards Bailey’s car.
She didn’t look happy.
Dexter tapped on his window, probably wondering why he hadn’t already wound it down, considering their eyes had been locked for the past thirty seconds.
‘I told you to wait for my message.’
‘That was five hours ago. I thought you’d forgotten about me.’
‘Do you ever do what anyone tells you?’
‘You want the honest answer?’
‘I know the honest answer.’
‘Boss!’ The cop in the grey suit called out from where he was standing on the grass. ‘Crime scene’s ours!’
She gave him a nod, then turned back to Bailey. ‘The kid wasn’t in there, but we think he was at some stage.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Talk later. We’ve got a bit to get through.’
‘Any IDs for me?’
‘Too early, Bailey. But don’t feel sorry for the dead guy on the grass. We know these guys. Shit bags, all of them.’
‘Suspects known to police, then?’
‘I’ll give you something. But you’re going to have to wait.’
‘Mind if I hang around?’
‘You’re here now.’
Bailey tapped her arm through the w
indow. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t cause any trouble.’
‘I know you won’t.’ Dexter leaned closer. ‘Why don’t you start up the other end of the street, that little white house with the neat garden.’
Bailey watched Dexter walk back towards the house, where most of the cops were standing around the dead guy on the lawn. He wasn’t sold on the tip-off. Of course she’d suggest he start at the house furthest away. There was a crime scene up this end of the street. Police business. Journalists were persona non grata.
CHAPTER 19
Bailey hated knocking on doors. It didn’t matter how many years he’d been in the game, it still gave him a sick feeling all the way down to his gut.
It was probably because of the death knocks, the worst kind of knock a journalist could make. Always unscheduled. Always unwanted.
As a cub reporter, Bailey had been punched, kicked and even spat on by families and friends of the dead. The vilest behaviour came from relatives of the crooks that society wouldn’t miss. Bad eggs taken out of circulation. Good riddance. The families knew it and they figured that journalists only came around to rub it in.
It was different with the innocents. Especially those who’d died in the most awful, heart-wrenching, ways. Those families were often the people who would make you a cup of tea and put out a plate of cookies. The ones who wanted to share their fondest memories, make their case for justice, or at least try to ensure that the obituary was written right.
Today wasn’t about death knocks, it was about getting information about the three scumbags whose house had just been raided by the TOU. Even so, Bailey still had that churning feeling in his stomach. Maybe it was the egg and lettuce sandwich that he’d eaten in the car.
Knock. Knock.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ A young bloke, covered in tattoos, was standing in his doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of old, fraying Y-fronts. ‘Who’re you, a cop?’
‘No, mate. I’m a reporter. I’m wondering if you –’
‘All the same to me. Fuck off!’
He slammed the door in Bailey’s face. The first knock, over before it had begun.
Bailey could hear the sound of a baby crying next door, hopefully he’d get a better reception there.
A young girl appeared on the other side of a solid metal screen door with a baby clinging to her shoulder. ‘Yeah?’
‘Your mum around?’
‘I am the mum, mate. Got three of them in here.’
She looked like she should have been in school. Short skirt and a singlet. On closer inspection, her white top was covered in snot and food stains.
‘John Bailey.’ He held out his hand and she just stared at it until he gave up, letting it flop by his side. ‘I’m a reporter. Not sure if you heard all that commotion a few houses up?’
‘I’m not deaf, mate,’ she said. ‘Anyone get killed? I heard them gunshots.’
‘Not sure.’ Bailey didn’t want to go into it.
‘Mum!’ A little voice called out from inside. ‘Where’s the TV remote?’
‘Find it yourself!’ She yelled back, then turned to Bailey. ‘They think I’m their fucking slave. Bloody kids. Got any?’
‘One. She’s all grown up.’
‘You’re lucky. Long way to go here.’
This knock was going better. At least she was talkative.
‘What can you tell me about the blokes down the street?’ Bailey said.
‘Not much. Haven’t been there long. I only ever saw them going in and out of Dim’s house.’
‘Dim?’
She moved the boy to her other hip and popped a dummy in his mouth. ‘You’re supposed to be a reporter, aren’t you? You should know about Dimity Clay?’
Dimity Clay.
The name sounded familiar, but Bailey couldn’t remember why.
‘Getting old. Remind me.’
‘Dim killed herself and her two kids. Her husband was cheating on her. She did it for revenge, apparently. It was in all the papers.’
Bailey avoided reading stuff like that, even when it was in all the papers. But he remembered the case, you couldn’t miss it.
‘Oh, that one,’ he said. ‘Horrible story.’
‘Mum! Come now, I need you!’ The little voice inside was getting louder.
‘Wait!’ She turned to Bailey. ‘Fuck me, it never stops.’
‘You need to get in there?’ Bailey said.
‘No. He’s just being a dick. Anyway, about Dim . . . she was my friend. Her bloke was a ratbag, but he didn’t deserve that, no one does.’
‘Sad . . . for everyone.’ Bailey felt stupid stating the obvious. ‘About those fellas who moved in, you ever speak to any of them?’
‘No. They kept to themselves. Dim’s place was vacant for almost a year. Weirdos, if you ask me.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Who’d want to live in that house after what she did? I thought they’d steamroll the place.’
‘Mum! Mum! Come on!’
She was about to scream again at the kid inside, so Bailey cut her off. ‘Couple more quick questions, before I let you go.’
‘Go for it.’
‘Did they look like they were religious? And can you remember any strange visitors?’
‘Visitors? No. Only ever saw the three blokes that lived there.’ She swapped the boy onto her other hip again. He was a pudgy little guy, looked heavy. ‘And religious? You mean, did they wear mooza dresses, or something?’
‘Something like that.’
‘No, nothing. Looked like dealers to me, but I don’t do that stuff . . . anymore.’ She winked at him. ‘Unless you’re offering.’
Bailey laughed, uncomfortably. ‘Thanks for your time.’
Bailey went door to door for the next hour without learning any more than he already knew, which was close to nothing. Nobody seemed to know anything about the men with the BearCat parked on their lawn. Most people would only say that they didn’t like the look of them.
His last stop was the neat little house that Dexter had pointed out when she was trying to get rid of him. It was right up the end of the street, a long way from the scene.
There was a chipped wooden handrail next to the three steps at the front door. The rail was a good sign. Older residents were almost always home, and there usually wasn’t much that went on in their street that they didn’t know about.
He pressed the bell and waited. And waited.
There was a small window by the door and he could just make out the figure of a woman sitting in an armchair with blue television light flickering on her face.
He hit the bell again, rapping his knuckles on the door hoping the vibration might carry.
It did.
The woman stood up, slowly making her way to the door. She opened it a few inches, leaving the screen locked as a precaution.
‘Hello, my name is John Bailey. I’m a reporter with The Journal. I was wondering if I might be able to ask you a few questions?’
‘The Journal?’ she said through the screen. ‘Why don’t you people ever write about any of the good things that people do around here?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said you were from The Journal.’ She opened the door wider so that she could get a better look at him. ‘All you people write about is crime. You’d think I’ve been living in a ghetto most of my life!’
‘I’m sorry about that Mrs?’
‘O’Reilly. Carmel O’Reilly. Been living in this house for near on fifty years.’
‘Mrs O’Reilly, I’m sorry you think that about the paper. I’ll pass on the criticism to the editor, he always likes hearing about how he can do his job better.’
‘His fault, is it?’ Bailey wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. ‘I thought you said you were a reporter?’
‘I did, and I am.’
Few people managed to flummox John Bailey. Carmel O’Reilly had somehow cornered him inside the first round.
‘We may not have a
ll the glamour of the eastern suburbs, Mr Bailey, but there are some good people living here. Good families.’
‘I have no doubt, Mrs O’Reilly.’
‘Now, what do you want?’
Bailey was feeling relieved that he hadn’t been invited inside to hear Mrs O’Reilly’s list of other complaints.
‘I’m not sure if you heard what happened down the other end of the street a little while ago? There were gunshots.’
‘Gunshots? Unfortunately, gunshots don’t get me out of my chair anymore, Mr Bailey.’
‘Well. About a half hour ago, police raided a house and they –’
‘You’d be talking about number forty-six?’
‘Number forty-six, that’s right.’ Finally, Bailey felt like he was getting somewhere. ‘Three men were arrested. Actually, one of them has been . . . well . . . he’s been –’
‘Get it out, Mr Bailey. I’m not a precious wallflower. I’ve been around. My Alfie served in Vietnam. Fat lot of respect he got for it, mind you. But don’t tiptoe around me with details. Especially in my own home.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs O’Reilly. One of them was shot and he’s in a bad way.’
She stepped closer to the screen door, her lips almost touching the wire. ‘Dead?’
‘Looks like it,’ Bailey said. ‘I’m looking for any information you might be able to tell me about those men.’
Mrs O’Reilly unlocked the latch and stepped past Bailey onto the porch. From where they were standing, they could easily make out the half-dozen police cars blocking the other end of the street and the BearCat on the grass.
‘Bad eggs is all I can say.’
She pulled a smoke out of the pocket in her dressing gown and sparked it.
‘My doctor told me to give these things away.’ She blew the smoke over Bailey’s shoulder, like she was doing him a favour. ‘What’s the point? I’ll be eighty-three tomorrow.’
‘Fair enough. What else can you tell me?’
‘They’ve only been here a few weeks. Before that the house had been empty for months.’